Episode 182: Poles Apart

The buckboard creaked and rattled they ascended the grade. Iverson sat at
the reins, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. As an officer in
the RNAS, he had little experience with horses -- for obvious reasons,
these did not figure prominently in life aboard one of His Majesty’s
Airships -- but with the motorcycle out of action while Iwamoto replaced a
piston, this had been the only transport they could find.

Beside him, Sarah was reading from a book of verse. "Listen to this one,
John," she said.

"Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence."

The lieutenant nodded in approval. Like all true sons of England, he was
genetically coded to appreciate poetry. "That would be that American chap,
Longfellow."

"Yes," said the island girl. "Isn’t he brilliant?"

"He’s quite good, for a colonial," Iverson conceded. "And he does tell a
good story."

Sarah smiled and laid a hand on his arm. "I’m glad that wasn’t our story,"
she said quietly. "If the wind had been different or I’d taken another
path that day, we might never have met."

Iverson fell silent as he recalled the circumstances of their encounter.
Looking back, it did seem the most unlikely of chances. "I will always be
grateful for the Captain’s timing," he said at last, "and the fact he chose
that particular moment to cross the island."

"Yes," agreed Sarah. "Sometimes timing is everything."

The track ended in a broad clearing filled with neat rows of taro. To their
right, the flag of the London Missionary Society flew above a cluster of
tin-roofed buildings. The horse, concluding its job was done, stopped to
crop the grass. Iverson stepped down from his seat, then turned to assist
his companion, but Sarah had already vaulted to the ground and was examining
their surroundings.

"It looks like an Anglican mission," she remarked. "Those fellows do get
about. But I must say, that looks promising!" She pointed to what
appeared to be a school. A row of steel drums, stenciled with words
‘Iron filings. Keep dry’ stood next to one wall.

"I wonder," said Iverson. This was most certainly the cargo they were
looking for, but something about its storage location bothered him.

They turned to see a young man in clerical garb smiling from a doorway.
"I’m Lieutenant Iverson, of His Majesty’s Airship R-505, the
Flying Cloud, " Iverson replied politely, "and this is our ballast
specialist, Miss Sarah."

"The Flying Cloud?" said deacon. "I believe we met one of your
lieutenants in Porto Villa: a Mister Murdock. How may I help you?"

"We were wondering what you could tell us about those iron filings."

Their host glanced around as if wondering what they were talking about.
"Oh yes, those," he said when he spotted the drums. "Father Blake is using
them in today’s lessons. Would you care to watch?"

"Certainly," said Iverson, doing his best to hide his misgivings.

The deacon led them into the school. Inside, a group of young islanders
were fidgeting at their desks in the manner of schoolchildren everywhere.
The teacher rapped on a table to get his students’ attention.

"Today we’ll learn about magnets," he announced. "They are one of the
wonders of nature. They generate powerful lines of force that attract iron
and steel. These lines are invisible, but there’s a way we can see them.
Can you guess what it is?"

Hands flew up around the room. "Special glasses?" "Mana?" "The Secret of
Cargo?" "Little pieces of iron?"

"That’s right, Timmy," said the teacher. "We use little pieces of iron,
called ‘iron filings’. Watch as I demonstrate...."

The deacon must have noticed Iverson’s expression. "Is anything wrong?" he
asked.

"Not exactly," said the lieutenant, "but I believe we should get back to our
ship. Thank you for your time."

"It was our pleasure," said the deacon. "Can I interest you in some
promotional literature?"

"Not at the moment."

Digby crouched to examine the trail. Back in England, fieldcraft of this
sort would have seemed unimaginable, but they’d gained plenty of experience
during their time in the Legion. "It was a one-horse wagon, riding light,"
he reported. "I’d say it passed early this morning."

Michael nodded from atop the scooter. "I imagine it was some farmer paying
a visit to whoever received the shipment. Let’s see who these gentlemen
are."

Digby climbed onto the saddle as his brother kicked the Bianchi back to
life. A short bumpy ride brought them to a clearing at the top of the
grade. A row of buildings -- quite obviously a mission -- stood to their
right.

"This seems an odd place for our Professor to call," Michael observed after
they dismounted. "Do you think he could get his blimp into this field?""

Digby held up a hand to judge the angles. "It’s hard to say," he replied.
"It depends on his skill as a pilot."

At that moment, a door opened to release a swarm of giggling children,
followed by a man in clerical garb. "Why, if it isn’t my young friends, the
pirates!" the man exclaimed.

"Excuse me," Michael said politely. "I believe you have mistaken us for
someone else,"

"Hardly," the man said with a smile. "I’m Deacon Smith. You must remember
our yacht, the Mighty Fortress."

"Oh yes. Right. That one."

"No matter," said the deacon. "It was an adventure, and I imagine we’d have
thrown that artwork away if you hadn’t taken it. What can I do for you
today?"

"We’re looking for some iron filings."

"Then you’ve come to the right place! The children are using them to learn
about magnets."

The two brothers glanced at each other.

"Interesting," Michael said at last.

Bludge finished studying the tracks, then made his way back to the carriage.
The brougham seemed out of place here on a Pacific island, but money talks,
and the Lord and Lady Warfield were in a position to do quite a bit of
talking.

"A one-horse wagon passed this way sometime in the morning, milord," he
reported. "It was followed by a motor-scooter. From the tire pattern, I’d
say it was an Italian make."

The baron thought this over. "The wagon must have been some local farmer,"
he decided. "The scooter would be a shore party from our acquaintances on
the R-505."

"Why would the RNAS buy an Italian scooter?" asked the baroness.

The baron gave a knowing grin. "I imagine some money changed hands after
the request for bids. We understand how these things work. Bludge, shall
we proceed?"

The butler climbed onto his seat and gave the reigns a flick. A short drive
brought them to a clearing at the top of the grade. He scanned the
surroundings, then dismounted to open the door for his passengers.

"It looks like a mission," said Lord Warfield.

"So it is," came a voice from a doorway. "I’m Deacon Smith. Whom do I have
the honor of addressing?"

"We are..." the baron paused for a moment, "...the Lord and Lady Churchill.
Would you happened to have received a shipment of iron filings recently?"

Their host seemed strangely unsurprised by this question. "Why yes, Father
Blake uses them in his lessons on the wonders of magnetism."